The Skinning Knife
by diopann
Summary: Pucci slid the wooden partition and through the lattice watched the darkened figure: Dio, his hands close together, kneeling in mimicry of repentance.
For the third time, they snuck into the Catholic church at the other side of town, the end of the boulevard from which the citadel is no longer visible. Dio's shoes were long gone—he'd lost them somewhere and for a fleeting moment Pucci had pondered on the desolation of shoes without bodies—and his footsteps on marble were silent.

Before, the other two times they had done the same, the metalic clicking of high heels against tiles had caught most of Pucci's attention. Dio's laughter, his voice echoing through the church right before he entered the confession booth, closely watched by Pucci who sat on a bench nearby after crossing himself with holy water, filled all spaces, dissipated any doubts. From where he sat, Pucci couldn't watch his friend kneel like a member of the congregation. He couldn't watch long, delicately painted nails on large hands trace lines engraved on a small plaque in bronze; a language Dio didn't speak reading phrases he remembered from ancient churches. Late afternoon light flooding the chapel through cheap stained glass came back to him, the smell of fish and soot and children of immigrants that had escaped death at the hands of famine, gathered in a small, too small parish on the southern neighbourhoods of the city, came with it. There his mother knelt, reading words she need not read for she knew the act by heart. "I dread the loss of Heaven…" he whispered with her. It wasn't long before Dio emerged from behind the red velvet curtain that hid him from Pucci's view and announced he was bored. The second time, Dio sat confidently on the other side of the booth, and Pucci scolded him. For a moment, Dio held Pucci's gaze in defiance, until he smiled, allowed—Pucci didn't understand what—and left, the clicking of his shoes echoing through the nave.

Now the skin on Dio's feet touched the marble—the foot arched in such a way that the heel barely touched the ground—and there was no sound to him, nothing to distract Pucci as they fell into place: the Priest on his side, the Sinner on his. Pucci slid the wooden partition and through the lattice watched the darkened figure: Dio, his hands close together, kneeling in mimicry of repentance. And then he started.

"In the name of you, Father, my last confession was a hundred years ago."

To this, the Father prayed—"The earth is the Lord's, and everything in it, the world and all its people, belong to Him"—with his gaze focused on his own lap. He couldn't watch the smile.

"If I remember this right then…I've said God's name in vain, I've used it profanely, every time I came," for a second Dio tried to gauge the Father's reaction, but there was nothing to give him away, no change in the air, no change to his heart. Perhaps he really was good at playing his part. Perhaps he needed more. "Or when I moved in you, Father, and you choked His name on your throat, but I know you wished to sa—"

"That's enough," Pucci cut him off, still not looking up from himself, still unchanging.

This made Dio frown and, despite himself, obey and continue.

"I've also drawn blood from others, killed them. Women, men… you, Father, I've drawn blood from your hands, your wrists, y—" his fingers slid through the lattice emphatically along with the word blood.

"Dio."

The stern, disapproving tone didn't betray the priest's longing to touch, to be touched, and he raised his gaze to meet Dio's insolence—Pucci would've liked to call it such—with all the reprimand he could muster.

Perhaps he wasn't playing.

"I don't suppose that's truly a sin," Dio continued, finally, the movement of his fingers following the cadence of his tone, "do you Father? After all, do you not drink the blood and eat the flesh? Does that not grant immortality?"

The look on Pucci's face, the line of his lips, spellt 'no', loud and stern. With the back of his hand he pushed the sinner's fingers away. "I said enough." That was all it took for the other to retreat. Soiled hands returned to each other and Dio felt something similar to what others might've felt in his position, and a strange sense of excitement followed immediately. He wished to be just as good as playing.

"It was not only for blood that I used them. Before and sometimes after feasting I fucked them and let them fuck me. As many times as possible until their lives drained…"

Pucci's gaze had returned to his lap, where his right hand rested atop his left, and his mouth seemed to whisper something that looked like prayer while his knotted brows spoke of meditation. All the while Dio continued to detail his sins with barely restrained glee, his voice almost cracking with anticipation until he could ask, finally.

"And you, Father," to push this he used the softest, kindest tone he could muster, the one he used on those with useful stands who were hard to break. "Do you have any sins yourself? Anything you wish to confess?"

"It's not your place to ask." Pucci didn't look up and continued to mouth silent prayers.

For a second, the excitement that had built up in him patiently was replaced with anger. Muscles in his jaw tightened, his hands felt heavy, and the wound on his neck ached full of sorrow, but it wasn't enough for Dio's almost repentant, shy smile to waver.

"What is my penance?"

Pucci couldn't see, he didn't want to, but the other man almost looked genuinely contrite, a faithful member of the church in eager anticipation of punishment, trying not to give away their true desires.

"You should wait until I've decided. Silently reflecting on your sins and your guilt."

The more Dio thought of it all the more anticipation he felt for Pucci's punishment, thrill tugging impatiently at his lips. The millisecond in which he'd almost let go of himself to anger appeared never to have happened and perhaps if he'd been mortal still his palms might've sweat, his mouth might've turned dry.

"Should I get down on my knees for you and beg? Would you have mercy on me?"

"Go to the altar and pray for forgiveness. Kneel before the altar, think about your shame, feel it, feel yourself degraded before it."

After they both stepped outside the confinement of the confessional, Dio walked slowly towards the altar and knelt on the cold surface of the marble steps leading up to it. He carefully turned to watch Pucci watch him before lowering his head in pretend prayer. The priest had walked steadily to stand behind the altar, some steps above. Grinning, the eyes of the sinner rose slowly to watch the priest take his place and look down on him from on high, as it should be. Disdain fitting for his punishment. Out loud, Dio cried for mercy, repented of his sin, asked the priest for absolution, his words dripping with shame and excitement.

Pucci extended both his arms to his sides. It meant more than it should've. The skin on Dio's neck tightened—again, it always did again—and he remembered old men extending their arms to cover up what they had done, the women they had beaten, the sons they had shamed, the lives they had stolen; a movement of their arms, extended to their sides, was enough to hide and to cleanse and no one, no wife and no son and no life, ever asked why it was enough: men writing history over history, extending their arms to erase what had been there before. This was different. It was a different shame, a different cleansing, and the skin on Dio's neck gave—again, it always did again—and he felt as if he'd been holding his breath for ages and suddenly, smiling with all the cruelty of those who have done no wrong, Pucci had removed the gag from his mouth and Dio was no longer choking.

The fleeting expression on Dio's face after he'd been forgiven reminded Pucci of a sculpture. The images of saints in picture books, their eyes drawn back in ecstasy for they had reached God and they too called out His name, desperately clutching at their robes, their bodies, knowing they were outside of themselves, outside their static place, with His name on their lips and white noise in their minds and he realised every time, every single time, he wished to use His name in vain, he reached that place too. Just like the sculpture of a saint lying in front of the altar, coming out of herself.

Pucci walked down and reached his hand out for Dio to take. Though he was already on his feet, the priest still stood higher than Dio. Arching his feet, the sinner reached—begged—for a kiss before being denied and pushed away. In a single movement, Pucci pushed that face back and walked down the steps, towards the exit. And the squeaking of his shoes against marble was all Dio could hear, all which filled the space.


End file.
